


lost in the shapes your body makes

by tosca1390



Category: Bedwyn Saga - Mary Balogh
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-06
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2018-01-11 08:37:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1170979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He stands in front of his dressing table, a velvet-lined case open before him. Normally, it holds eight quizzing glasses, identical to one another, with black ribbon attached at the ends as a means of holding them securely. They are cleaned and polished twice weekly, and he always has one available for use. They are unnecessary to his vision, and entirely necessary to his position and mantle as the Duke of Bewcastle. </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>They are all also missing. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	lost in the shapes your body makes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [magisterequitum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterequitum/gifts), [empressearwig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/empressearwig/gifts), [spyglass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spyglass/gifts).



> Prompt: quizzing glass
> 
> Not as porny as it should be. #whoops
> 
> For Jordan, because she enables.

*

“Odd,” Wulfric Bedwyn says out loud to no one.

He stands in front of his dressing table, a velvet-lined case open before him. Normally, it holds eight quizzing glasses, identical to one another, with black ribbon attached at the ends as a means of holding them securely. They are cleaned and polished twice weekly, and he always has one available for use. They are unnecessary to his vision, and entirely necessary to his position and mantle as the Duke of Bewcastle. 

They are all also missing. 

_Peculiar_ , he thinks, resting his fingertips on the empty velvet. The golden fall sunlight peeks through the partially-drawn drapes, alighting warmly on the bereft case. No one has ever tried to take his quizzing glasses before. For all his siblings’ teasing and sly cuts at him for the accessory, they have never dared. He’s positive Morgan thought of it once, and thought better. 

In fact, the only person ever to remain in possession of one of his quizzing glasses for any extended length of time apart from him is his wife of five months. 

“Ah,” he says, shutting the case. 

Wulfric Bedwyn waited nearly a year for the love of his life to agree to marry him. Certainly his patience and forbearance is legendary. He, of course, can wait out a woman even as clever and bright as Christine. 

His waistcoat pocket does feel quite empty without his usual glass, though.

*

Christine is out for a walk on the grounds. She likes to walk every morning, and is especially effusive of the foliage around Lindsey Hall at this time of year. Wulfric honestly has never truly thought of it, but he does have to admire the lush greens shifting to golden yellow and orange with the coming of autumn. Christine has taught him to appreciate the land even more than he already did; he is forever grateful to her for that. 

Not grateful enough, however, to discontinue from his purpose. 

He strides towards her up the hill, moving with brisk purpose. She lingers at the crest, peering up into the cloudy cool skies, her cream pelisse a marvel against the verdant picture of nature. She is a picture of innocence. 

It is all an act. 

“Christine.”

Even in his low, even tone, she hears him. She turns and smiles, looking particularly flushed about the cheeks today. Her hair has grown out some since their marriage, hitting at mid-throat, the curls still lovely and soft about her face. She is utterly beautiful to him in her joy and delight, and he is again wholly grateful to be married to her. 

Still, not so grateful as to forgive theft. 

“Well, this is a nice surprise,” she says as he halts right next to her. “I thought you were meeting with tenants this morning.”

“I will be, once I’ve finished dressing,” he says, leveling his gaze at her. 

Blinking those long lashes, she tilts her head. “You look quite dressed to me. I suppose I would know best whether you were or not,” she teases. 

The temptation to take her in his arms and kiss her, lower her to the ground and growl into the thin skin of her throat is immense. But the Duke of Bewcastle knows how to resist temptation. Most of the time. Except for this woman. 

“I am not, actually,” he says instead, voice cool. 

She makes a great show of looking him up and down, of turning about him in a circle. Her eyes glimmer with laughter. “Wulfric, what on earth could you mean?”

“My quizzing glasses are missing.”

“What?” she asks, aghast. For a moment, he nearly believes her shock. “All of them?”

He arches an eyebrow. “Quite so.”

“Who could have done such a thing?” she asks, mirth turning her lips. 

“I have a thought or two,” he says, reaching for her gloved hand. 

She slips away from his grasp and sets down the hill with fresh determination. “Clearly, there is villainy afoot.”

“You sound like a Sheridan play,” he says as he follows, catching up to her easily. 

“Oh, an entertaining fellow, wasn’t he?” she says, laughter in her voice. 

“Christine, do be reasonable – “

“I resent the implication that I am not being so,” she says, halting to face him quite abruptly. “Wulfric, that was uncalled for.”

He looks at her, and takes a deep breath. “My apologies,” he says, reaching for her. 

She comes willingly, tucking herself into his chest and resting her forehead against his throat. “Perhaps they’ve just been misplaced,” she murmurs as he strokes a hand down her back. They are the only ones at Lindsey Hall for the present time, and the future as well; he isn’t entirely sure he wants his family here for Christmas, as he does so enjoy having Christine to himself. It allows him the liberty to hold her as he chooses, wherever and whenever he wants. He enjoys it. 

“Perhaps,” he says, though he knows it isn’t the case. 

She looks up, laughter in her gaze, and reaches up on her toes to kiss him. “Or, perhaps you aren’t looking in the right places,” she says against his mouth before she shifts away from him and continues on her way back to the house. 

He watches her walk away, blinking. There is a strange weight in his waistcoat pocket. Sliding his hand within, he feels the cut of cool glass and the slick slide of black ribbon. And, a note. 

_Here’s one. Your endeavors will be well-rewarded._

“Hmm,” he says, eyes fixed on his wife’s retreating form rather than the note.

*

Wulfric finds the second and third quizzing glasses in his library that afternoon. One in his desk drawer – clearly a pity hiding job, meant to tease his interest. The other was inside of a hollowed-out book, on the shelf where he can still see the indents made by Christine’s nails one fine afternoon in the summer. 

The fourth, after a tedious discussion with the cook, is revealed to be in the kitchen, in a picnic basket. 

He really does admire Christine’s playfulness and ingenuity, he thinks as he sits opposite her during dinner. The serving maids leave the soup and shut the door firmly behind them, leaving the duke and duchess quite alone, and quite undisturbed. Just as he had requested. 

“There are only so many places to hide delicate objects,” he says, raising his glass of wine to his lips. 

Lovely in dark green muslin, Christine tilts her head. “Is that so?”

“I will find them all.”

“I honestly hope you do,” she says with a bright smile. “I can’t imagine who misplaced them so particularly.”

“Perhaps I could engage your services to help me find them,” he says, wetting his lips. 

“I have the utmost faith in your mastery, Wulfric,” she says, sipping the pea soup with care. 

He sets his wine glass down and rises from the table. She pauses, and sets down her spoon. In the candlelight her gaze is playful, if wary. 

“I’m wondering if there isn’t something I can do to convince you to assist me,” he says, voice low and even. 

Visible goosebumps rise on her bare arms under his gaze. He has just discovered what this specific tone of voice seems to do to her. He doesn’t mind using it to his advantage. 

“What assistance could I begin to provide?” she asks as he stops right at her chair. 

His hand settles at the nape of her neck, thumb rubbing the skin there. She shudders, inhales visibly. 

“I’m sure we could think of something,” he says quietly. 

With his other hand, he nudges her chair back from the table, until there is room for him to kneel in front of her. Which he does with all the grace and ease of an aristocrat. 

“Wulfric – “

He slips his hands under her skirts, fingertips drawing nonsense patterns on her calves through her stockings. She looks down at him, heavy-lidded and smiling slightly. 

“This is not the after-dinner entertainment I expected,” she breathes, cheeks flushing. 

“Seeing as how it is still dinner, entertainment may be forthcoming,” he says archly, his hands finding her bare warm inner thighs. 

Helpfully – she is a helpful woman in many ways – she takes her skirt in her hands and gathers them up at her waist. “I cannot promise I will be inclined to help you in your search,” she begins, slightly breathless, “but I will listen to your arguments.”

God, she is a beautiful woman. He steels his mouth against a smile and draws down her drawers, cupping her sex. Shifting in her seat, she moans with the touch and edges herself forward, towards the edge of the chair. His fingers part her folds with ease and begin to stroke, to rub at her clit and tease her opening. His mouth drops to her knee, mouthing at the rounded skin there. 

“I do love this particular argument of yours,” she says, a bit hazily. 

“So you will tell me where they are,” he says in his bored, cool tone. 

Shivers ripple down her skin. She reaches out to sink her hands into his hair. “Where what are?”

Mouth twitching, he moves further between her legs, his tongue warm and eager for the slight salt of her skin. The smell of her arousal fills his senses; he can feel himself tighten in his breeches. 

“Christine,” he all but growls, circling her clit with his thumb as he kisses the join of her thigh and hip. 

In assistance, she slides her thigh over his shoulder, enabling the wider spread of her thighs. God, she is delightful, he thinks as he finally slides his mouth between her thighs and tastes her. Her fingers all but knot in his hair and she sags against the chair, shuddering and whimpering. He licks her, strokes his fingers within her as his mouth closes over her clit, growls against her slick flesh. Her pleasure is a sudden thing, cresting through her, and he takes it, strokes and kisses her through it until she is limp and panting. 

He shifts away, reclothing and smoothing her as a gentleman does, and licks his lips as he looks at her. 

“Good god, Wulfric,” she murmurs, flushed and gleaming. 

“My quizzing glasses, if you please,” he says as he rises, and holds out a hand. He is as graceful and elegant as a man can be with an erection straining in his breeches. 

Christine touches her cheek, and smiles, eyes alight with pleasure. “I am suddenly quite full,” she murmurs, rising with a faint tremble. “And think I may retire.”

“Christine – “

She leans up and kisses him. With the taste of her still on his lips, she kisses him, presses herself flush to his chest and sighs. His hands immediately come to her hips and hold her close, pressing her against his arousal. 

“Perhaps you would care to join me, husband? You look weary,” she murmurs, looking at him from under her lashes. 

Damnit. Cursing under his breath, he scoops her into his arms and strides out of the dining room. The halls are blissfully empty; he takes her right to their bedroom, and shuts the door firmly. 

In the morning when he wakes, Christine is gone. But there are two quizzing glasses on her pillow, along with a note. 

_Remarkable effort. You are quite close, now._

*

The seventh is in the drawing room, hidden cleverly in a vase of autumn blooms. 

Three days later, though, he is still without the eighth. Christine, utterly unhelpful, merely laughs and smiles, and positively glows as she goes about her business in the manor, and sleeps contentedly at his side at night. It’s completely preposterous how difficult this should be. But he bears in mind that it is meant for fun and games; there is no real harm done. 

It’s just different, that’s all. He’s getting used to different. 

It’s a cool rainy afternoon when he walks through the halls and is stopped by his butler with a note, clearly from his wife. 

_Did you check the dovecote?_

With an umbrella in hand, Wulfric steps out into the steady, if not pouring, rain, and makes his way across the lawn, towards their favorite retreat. When he opens the door, she is in the midst of stoking the fire. The grey light dims the effect of the stained glass, but the lavender-blue hits her yellow wool gown at just the right angle, a lovely pattern that reminds him of spring. She looks up as he shuts the door behind him, smiling brightly. There is something unspeakably lovely about her in this moment, as if he has never seen her quite in this light. 

“You summoned me?” he asks archly, shrugging out of his overcoat and setting the umbrella to the side. 

“I grew impatient,” she says with a laugh. 

“Is the last one here?” he asks, stepping into the room. 

“It is,” she says, all warmth and love. “You do still have to find it, however.”

“Do I get a hint?” 

Smile widening, she steps forward into the room and stretches her arm out to him. “Me.”

Smiling slightly, he comes forward and takes her hand in his. His free hand finds itself a home against her warm cheek. “Will you tell me what all this was about?” he asks, mouth very close to hers. 

“Not until you’ve found them all,” she whispers before kissing him, slipping her free hand between his waistcoat and his shirt. 

He kisses her slowly, as if they have all the time in the world. His patience is a virtuous thing. Slowly, as his tongue slips between her parted lips, he shifts his hands to the back of her dress, undoing the buttons one by one until her dress slides away and she is left just in her shift. She steps from her dress and sets it aside on the armchair, looking at him with steady bright eyes. 

The quizzing glass hangs from her neck around its black ribbon, settled between her breasts. She smiles at him and takes it from her neck, pressing it into his hands. “You win, your grace,” she says softly. 

“And what, pray tell, do I win?” he asks, holding the glass carefully. 

Her face shifts just slightly, her eyes gleaming a little too brightly. There is a tremble to her mouth he cannot place. 

“Christine – “

“I am with child,” she says quite quickly, her skin flushed pink. 

Pausing, he looks at her for a long moment. For that time, his mind is blank. He is utterly silent. 

And then, it is all joy. 

He places the quizzing glass aside on the desk and reaches for her, pulls her into his arms and holds her close. His mouth covers hers as she looks up at him and she laughs into his kiss, twining her arms around his neck. There is still the same amount of her, still the same curve to her; apart from the glow in her cheeks, which seemed so natural, he never would have guessed it. 

“You are happy?” she asks when she pulls away to breath, a strange glimmer to her eyes. 

Wulfric runs his hands through her curls, cupping her face in his broad hands. “I am,” he says, voice strangely hoarse. 

She smiles then, and pushes off his waistcoat. “Come celebrate with me, then,” she whispers, and leads him to the bed. 

On the small bed, with the dim colored light spread over their skins, he does. With alacrity. 

*


End file.
